


The Cost of Perfection

by malinaldarose (coralysendria)



Category: Earth: Final Conflict
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Fishing, Gen, Memory Related, Trope Bingo Round 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coralysendria/pseuds/malinaldarose
Summary: After a memory intrusion reminds him of a boyhood experience, Boone attempts to recapture some of that enjoyment.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	The Cost of Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the First Time/Last Time square on my Trope Bingo Round 15 card.

William Boone had been hard at work since just after breakfast, and now he frowned down at the neat row of fishing lures lying on his basement workbench. 

This was the first day he'd had completely to himself since becoming a Companion Protector. When Da'an wasn't keeping him hopping, Doors attempted to monopolize his time with Resistance business. And if it wasn't either of them, it was Dr. Belman checking on the progress of the cyberviral implant in his brain. He didn't mind the latter, at least, as he was still getting a grip on the CVI's uses, as well as still having the occasional memory intrusion. Fortunately, he hadn't had one at a critical moment, but yesterday, during a routine conversation with Da'an, he had suddenly been immersed in fishing with his father, reliving the moment, completely losing touch with the reality around him. 

The alien face of the Companion had been replaced by his father's brown eyes and auburn hair, the blue-violet walls of the embassy by the small lake where they used to go fishing early on Saturday mornings when cottony fog still lay on the smooth water like a downy comforter. He had shaken free of the memory to find Da'an watching him with something like understanding in his eyes, then the Taelon had smoothly continued the conversation while Boone stumbled to keep up.

Embarrassing though the incident was, it had reminded him of how much he had enjoyed tying flies with his father; it was nearly as much fun to make them as to use them. The day that his father allowed him to start making his own was one of the proudest days of his childhood -- despite ending in blood and tears when he drove a hook into his thumb.

Which was why he had decided to spend this morning in his cool basement making lures -- partly because he thought it might be relaxing to do something that had so little to do with his daily life, but also to test the CVI. He hadn't made lures in decades and wanted to see if he could call up the memories and skills required.

The CVI worked exactly as he had been promised. Not only was the knowledge there, but the muscle memory came back immediately. Boone spread his hands out before him, looking at them critically, doing his best to ignore the skrill's tentacle looped around the base of his right thumb. They had moved among his supplies surely and skillfully, with none of the expected fumbling. Nor had he managed to hurt himself -- no punctures; not so much as a scratch. He had moved through the construction like a master, tying a dozen flies in the space of the morning, despite not having done so since he was fifteen. 

He looked back at the lures, each perfect -- and perfectly identical. It wasn't right. Lures should be lumpy or lopsided; there should be loose bits that had to be fixed. They shouldn't be shiny and exact and...and _perfect_ , as though mass-produced by a factory. 

It was as if the Taelons had given him ability at the cost of talent, like a pianist who perfectly played the same piece precisely the same way every single time without variation or experimentation. There was no heart in such a musician and there was no heart in these lures. Oh, he'd use them, if he ever had a chance to go fishing again -- no point in wasting the materials and the fish wouldn't care -- but it wouldn't be the same. Nothing, he realized, running a thoughtful finger down the bumpy spine of his purring skrill, would ever be the same.

Boone carefully put the completed lures away and methodically cleaned up his workbench. When he turned off the light and closed the basement door, it was with a certain sense of finality. He wouldn't be trying this again.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The original version of this was written for a private challenge; the original prompt was "not satisfied with his handiwork."
> 
> 2\. This version has not been beta'd.
> 
> 3\. This would be set very early in the series, prior to Episode 6 ("Float Like A Butterfly") at the end of which Boone gives away his fishing rod.


End file.
